


An Unexpected Encounter

by Lurea



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo encounters someone unexpected on Tol Eressea and must put some of Bilbo’s teachings to use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Encounter

The roar of the Sea penetrated even deep into the forest, where sunlight dappled the fallen leaves and the green air tingled in one’s nostrils. The trees were mighty giants, growing undisturbed for Ages, leaving little room for weaker plants. No brambles filled with chattering birds disturbed the stillness of these woods.

Ahead, Frodo could see a shaft of pure gold lighting the forest. One of the giant trees had fallen, and he detoured around the trunk to look up through the gap in the forest’s canopy. Only a few thin high clouds streaked the azure sky. The newly begun day promised to be beautiful. What days are not, though, here in Tol Eressea, Arda unmarred ? He shifted his pack on his shoulders and continued.

He trekked over a gentle hill and heard water nearer than the Sea’s soft slurring murmur. The sound bubbled gaily, merrier and less aloof than the Sea. He followed the sound down the slope until he came upon a small brook, interrupting the trees’ dominion in its cheerful way.

The sunlight sparkled on the shallow water, and on the rocks and sand of the banks. Here saplings and brush had gained a foothold and the great trees were fewer, balancing precariously on the stream’s edge. The closest tree had a trunk of silvery-brown bark and sat upon a mass of gnarled limbs. Frodo supposed the limbs to be driftwood, washed up by floods to surround the old tree. He prodded them with his walking stick and then stooped for a closer examination. The mat was the tree’s own twisted roots, revealed by the gradually eroding soil. Those roots will give way someday, and the tree will topple into the water. The thought brought a measure of sadness, that this ancient tree should be nearing the end of its span of days.

A gleam caught his eye, and he poked among the roots until he had found the source: a curious blue scale, trapped deep in the matted roots, like that a snake might shed. How odd. He dropped his walking stick, and wiggled his fingers between the roots, already planning to show his prize to Bilbo and Gandalf. There was a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye and then he was struck hard on the back. The blow knocked him flat and he was left with only a confused impression of a blue blur. A large blue blur.

The stream-washed rocks and roots that had smelled so pleasant to walk upon were not nearly as pleasant impressed upon one’s nostrils. What had knocked him down? It had been too large for any bird that he knew of. Too large for any animal, in fact. Vague tales of "blue wizards" came to mind.

He rolled over and scrambled backwards, crab-like, until his back touched the tree’s trunk. He looked up and revised his thoughts immediately. A tail coiled itself slowly back up into the tree, and a sapphire-colored snout emerged from the leaves above it.

Whatever that was, it was definitely not a blue Maia.

A mellifluous voice addressed him. "Dear me, are you all right? You are very quiet. And very small. Did I hurt you with my tail?"

Lustrous silvery eyes blinked at him above the blue snout. He stood up slowly, distantly aware of an interior voice starting in alarm, calling Run! Run! It seemed too much trouble to heed it. Surely, he could be in no danger here on Tol Eressea?

The eyes blinked again, very slowly, as Frodo stared into them. They only seemed silver initially, he saw, as swirls of jade, bronze, and gold entranced his eyes. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged.

"Where are my manners?" the voice purred. "We must be introduced properly, don't you think?" The tail emerged from the greenery again, and the tree trembled as the rest of the graceful form followed. The long sinuous length of it mirrored the azure of the sky. Ripples of color played along its side like a song, and the notes were light: crimson, molten yellow, fierce cobalt and ashen green.

Frodo swallowed hard and took a step away from the tree, and the creature turned its head to follow the motion. The thought of flight seemed laughable, in the light of its glimmering eyes.

"You are a dragon." He had never seen one, but there was no mistaking it. The creature's body was longer than he had imagined, and its wings were indistinct smudges along its back. The eyes above the delicately tapering snout were expressive; its mouth was filled with a multitude of teeth. Was it his imagination or did he see wisps of steam curling from the nostrils? He took another careful step back and the dragon spoke.

"Aren't you the clever one? It's no use mincing around like that. I could certainly eat you if I wished, but I've sworn off men and elves.” The dragon yawned, giving Frodo an excellent look at its red gullet and sharp teeth. "Quite a bother, but what else is one to do?"

It turned its head to pierce him with its dazzling eyes, and Frodo looked hastily down at his feet. There was gravel between his toes, he saw. And a leaf fragment caught in the hair of his left foot. He took a deep breath, feeling his wits return. Obviously, he needed to avoid looking the dragon directly in the eyes. They did odd things to his thought processes.

Always be polite to a dragon, my boy, he remembered Bilbo saying. It may not help but rudeness will certainly hurt: hurt you, that is…

“Sworn off?” Frodo said. "How distressing for you." He raised his eyes, and focused on the dragon’s nostrils. There _was_ steam coming from them. The sight did not help his composure.

"Rather.” The dragon stretched one leg lazily. The claws of its foot came within an arms length of Frodo’s midsection.

He stiffened, but managed to maintain a careless tone of voice. "Your words surprise me. But you are the first dragon I have had the pleasure of meeting," he said, with a small bow in the dragon's direction. "Somehow or another, I had the impression that dragons did as they liked."

Two larger puffs of steam emerged from the dragon's nostrils. "Normally, that would be true. How lucky for you that it is not true _at this moment._ ” The dragon stressed the last three words, its eyes seeming to measure Frodo's potential as an appetizer.

"Far more lucky to have seen you, I think. You are extraordinary. But I daresay," Frodo cocked his head questioningly, "you must hear that constantly. Even your prey must be mesmerized by your incredible beauty, so that they do not even consider the circumstances under which they are seeing it."

A turquoise ripple passed shimmering down the dragon's side and its tail flicked. "Yes, actually. I am surprised at your perception, for all that you are rather a scrawny looking creature." The dragon extended its shining head and sniffed delicately. The eyes opened wider briefly and it sniffed again, as if something in the air displeased it. “You are no elf or man, that is certain. Who are you and what is your name?”

It is a good idea to tell a dragon as little as possible, Bilbo said in his memory. And let me tell you, not answering questions politely can get a bit ticklish.

"I am a hobbit of the Shire, and may I have your name?" With difficulty, Frodo kept himself from blurting out his name and the habitual polite rejoinder. It would not do to mention anything of _service_ to this creature.

The dragon rumbled, curling its tail around its forelegs. "You may not have my name; I rather like it myself. I will allow you to use a name to address me, however, that of Scathë. My private name is just that: private."

Scathë. It sounded oddly familiar. He looped his fingers through his suspenders and thought for a moment. Of course! Merry’s horn! "I have heard mention of a Scatha," Frodo said. "The name told to me was that of Scatha the Worm, if you will pardon the seeming rudeness."

Scathë's eyes flashed and its wings fluttered briefly. "The Worm? Humph. Ridiculous crawling creatures! Do I look like a worm to you?"

The warm air stirred by the dragon’s wings flattened Frodo’s hair against his head. "Not in the least, O Scathë. Perhaps your overwhelming magnificence is the problem. Those with small minds must denigrate what they do not understand.”

The dragon rumbled again and Frodo recognized it as laughter. "Perhaps. I did not trouble myself over their reasons overmuch. I simply ate the ones that annoyed me."

"Then you are that Scatha that was spoken of?" Frodo studied the dragon with some puzzlement. As he remembered Bilbo’s description, this dragon did not match Smaug in size. But dragons continue to grow as they age, so it should be larger. Scathë was as twice as tall as Aragorn's war steed, and far longer, but did not even approach the size of the oliphaunt he and Sam had seen.

"I am related," the dragon said haughtily.

“My understanding was that an ‘ë ’ on names signified the feminine gender, O glorious one.”

The dragon's eyes whirled. "Elves are so foolishly free with information. Even their language doles it out lavishly. You are correct, of course.” She continued: “You ask a great many questions of me, and you have not told me your name, hobbit of the Shire.” She looked thoughtful and her narrow forked tongue tasted the air briefly. “Men and elves are forbidden me, but I know nothing of hobbits. Tell me, are your folk excessively brave or excessively foolish, to speak at such length with a dragon?"

Frodo felt an icy chill down the back of his neck, as he perceived the depth of his folly. Men and elves were forbidden her, but what of hobbits? Hobbits were related to men, were they not? The very tip of her tail began to twitch and he was irresistibly reminded of a cat preparing to spring. Frodo did not feel as if he could argue genealogy under such conditions.

Dragons fancy themselves great riddlers, Bilbo said, firelight gleaming in his eyes. Lad, it is lucky I did not know that or my courage might well have deserted me. And gotten your foolish uncle eaten for his trouble! Laughing with him, sure nothing of the sort could ever happen to his adored, adventurous uncle.

"O Scathë," Frodo replied. "I do not claim excessive bravery and I hope not to be a fool. Scholars will dare much for knowledge, will they not?”

Scathë dug her claws idly into the tree-roots, leaving bright furrows of bare wood. “I have eaten a few of those in my time, as well.”

Frodo could not help but smile, fascinated and delighted even in his fear. Bilbo spoke of this dragon-spell. She was wit and terror, death and beauty. “I will not claim scholarship, then.” He paused a moment and then said, “I can say that I am wave-rider and Ring-bearer, eagle's cargo and wizard's friend."

The dragon reared to her full height and her eyes gleamed. "Oho, you think to puzzle me?"

"I am no elf but have died thrice and still live. I am no fly yet have crawled down walls. No ghost yet have passed watched ways unseen."

“Certainly you smell like no ghost.”

“I am fire-walker and light-bringer. I find my friends within the tomb and lo! They live yet! Arrows rebound from my back and webs will not hold me!”

“Very nice, I’m sure.” She waited a moment, and when he said nothing further, crouched comfortably. "You do not lack for courage, lack-wit though you may be, wizard’s friend. Mithrandir is a wizard. I know naught of his taste, but he might befriend a rabbit. That odd brown one would, but he is nowhere near."

"The term for my people is hobbit, mighty Lady."

She snorted and a small tongue of fire played briefly over her muzzle. "Rabbit-hobbit, hobbit-rabbit. They sound similar enough to me. And you have a rabbity look to you, especially that of late winter when there is hardly a bite of flesh on them."

"My lady sounds as if she has a pretty expertise in the matter of rabbits," Frodo replied.

For a moment, he thought she would become angry; her eyes darkened to ashy grey, and her claws twitched, but then she relaxed and tossed her head. "You dare much," she said. "Fly-walker: I have seen mortals such as you climb. I notice you do not specify without a rope? You might consider your words more carefully, Mr. Wave-rider, or they may take you places you do not wish to go!"

"Indeed, beauteous Scathë, I have had some experience along those lines," Frodo said gravely.

"I imagine so! Why not say elf-boat rider and have done with it? Unless you have hidden wings there is no other means for folk such as yourself to pass the Straight Way to this island," she said. "Eagle's cargo is plain enough, although—” She broke off and looked hastily at the skies. When she was satisfied nothing larger than a gull moved, she looked back at Frodo. "You were not eagle’s cargo recently, I wager. Do I come near the mark?" she demanded.

"Near to the silver, Lady, but not yet in the gold,” Frodo answered.

“Silver as in silver mail and silver sword?”

He started and she rumbled laughter deep in her chest. “You scent of Elves, web-cutter! I have some knowledge of Elvish weapons and armor.” She arched her neck proudly then continued. "As for dying and tombs, paugh! To adventure is to chance death and chance it frequently. You risk yourself for your friends as mortals do. And heal quickly: you have stamina, but there is nothing so interesting in that.”

Frodo said nothing. Her quick guesses disconcerted him, made him feel his attempt at riddling was futile, the hopeless gasps of a dimming mind.

She exhaled gustily, and the warmth brought droplets of sweat to his forehead. “And you claim light-bringer? Passing unseen? Those and that odd title of Ring-bearer. That is the true reason you, insignificant creature, walk these woods. For there is something—” Her mighty head bent close and turned until one glittering eye was fixed on the slim form before her.

Frodo felt uncomfortably naked under her gaze, as if she poked and prodded him in ways he could not perceive. Her breath cast the smell of brimstone about him, recalling Orodruin in his mind.

The narrow elongated pupil of her eye flared briefly and then slitted. "There is something bright in you," she said slowly. "And a shadow—” Dark magenta rippled down her shining scales, and she pulled her head back. "I am not certain that I should not eat you."

Frodo did not move, a small figure in a grey cloak, looking up at her perilous beauty. "Is it your wisdom that speaks thusly to you, Lady, or your fear?” he asked quietly.

Her snout gaped open, and a jet of fire shot out and set aflame a bush scarce three feet from him. The green leaves withered and crackled, and the heat forced him to take several steps away from it.

"Ring-bearer!" she trumpeted. "Wave-rider! Wizard's friend you may be, take heed, lest your courage outrace your life!"

Frodo bowed his head. "I beg your pardon, if I have given offense."

She sat back on her haunches and curled her shining tail around her forelimbs. Her lashes veiled her eyes, and her mouth opened again, but only a wisp of smoke emerged. She was silent for a long moment. "You intrigue me, Mr. Hobbit, in your words and actions. Nothing in this World has done so for a wearyingly long time. I believe I might let you live, even were I not bound by oath. For I am the last of my kind, secreted here by those infernally tinkering Elves, and I diminish.”

"I grieve that a magnificence such as yourself should diminish," Frodo said.

She sank down, seeming to draw in upon herself. "So it is sung, and so it is," she said. "I tire, Hobbit, and I will sleep. It is odd to find a child of Man exiled upon these shores. If you bide here perhaps our paths will cross again."

Frodo touched his chest lightly, looking directly into the fading silver eyes. "So I will hope."

She flowed smoothly back into the tree like a river of light. The edges of the leaves glittered faintly in the sun. A mighty silver oak, Frodo saw, many hundreds of years old. Little else distinguished this tree from the multitudes surrounding it. The day was lengthening, and Bilbo would be waiting. He took up his walking stick from where he had dropped it, noting wryly the scorch marks along one side, and made his way home.

The End


End file.
